


Rook to H1

by Nice_Valkyrie



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Casual Sex, Cunnilingus, F/M, Mild Femdom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23814160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nice_Valkyrie/pseuds/Nice_Valkyrie
Summary: One thing Breda always liked about Hawkeye was her directness.
Relationships: Heymans Breda/Riza Hawkeye
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	Rook to H1

**Author's Note:**

> A little smut just for fun. Thanks to friends for their consistent support of my interest in rare pairings!

Around ten o’clock, Heymans Breda indulged himself by ordering a third drink. He usually restricted himself to two per night out, except for special occasions like birthdays, major holidays, the eves of major holidays, and whenever a payday coincided with the solstice. He was pretty certain that this evening wasn’t any of those, and normally his instincts were very good. But it was better not to be overconfident.

Besides, he figured someone ought to be having a little fun. He’d had to drag Jean by the ear to the Cinnamon Hart, a rare and surreal experience, considering how often Jean found his dates there. Breda couldn’t count the number of weeks that had begun with Jean strolling up to their shared desk, taking his time lighting up a fresh cigarette, and finally drawling, “I really like this girl.” But tonight Jean had seemed itchy and distracted, and he’d left for home before nine o’clock, claiming an early family obligation the next morning. Now Breda was chatting at the bar with only Hawkeye and the colonel.

Each of them was sipping tonic water, a sure sign their nights were winding down. Which was a shame, because Breda wasn’t ready to leave yet. The list of topics Mustang was not only familiar with, but opinionated about, was seemingly inexhaustible, and meant he could sustain nearly any conversation—often with a liveliness belying the subject matter.

“All new fashion comes over the border from Aerugo,” Mustang was insisting. His cheeks, though less pink now, were still flushed, and his voice rose easily over the bar din. “You can trace practically every major trend of the last fifty years over the Southern trade route. Almost everything that gets popular here originated in Aerugo. Like knee-high lambskin boots.”

Hawkeye, meanwhile, always managed to seem cool, calm, and collected—in a word, sober—even deep into the night, a skill which was all the more infuriating because Breda had never quite managed to acquire it for himself.

“You might want to update the catalogs you shop from,” she said. “I haven’t seen those advertised since 1902.”

“No, they’re out of date now,” said Mustang, dismissing the complaint with a wave of his hand. “But they were wildly popular for a decade or so. And they were part of the Aerugan cavalry uniform until 1889. Care to guess why they switched to plain cow leather? The profits from Amestris were too good to give up.”

“I never realized so many people wanted to look like those idiots,” said Breda. “Maybe that ought to be grounds for treason.”

“But if we took everything wholesale from Aerugo, we’d dress exactly like them, and that’s obviously not the case,” said Hawkeye.

“Who said anything about wholesale? Nothing is wholesale. There’s always modification, that’s how fashion works.”

Hawkeye caught Breda’s eye, and he didn’t bother to suppress his snort. It was incredible how much long-suffering patience could be communicated in a single glance.

Mustang wasn’t quite oblivious, yawning airily and brushing his hair from his eyes. “But what do I know, anyway...I’m just the person in the room who goes on the most dates and hears the most sartorial compliments.”

“Hey,” said Breda. “You don’t know that. You ought to try the unkempt, sloppy look. Girls love it.”

“That does seem like it would be easier.”

“Easier than trying to dress like an Aerugan? You’d better believe it.”

“Interesting,” said Mustang. “Sloppy, unfashionable...should I dye my hair, too?”

“Yes,” said Breda. “Absolutely.”

“And never buy anything that might have originated in Aerugo.”

“I think the lambs would like that better,” said Hawkeye thoughtfully.

Breda barked a laugh. Mustang grinned and shook his head in mock defeat. He reached for his glass, blinked when he found it empty, and cast a look at the clock on the wall. His face fell. “Goodness, is it that time already?” He rubbed the side of his jaw and stifled another yawn. “In another half an hour, I’ll have to seriously consider the possibility of—”

“You should go home now, sir,” said Hawkeye. There was an edge to the suggestion, just audible enough for Breda’s keen ear to pick up on it.

Mustang heaved a sigh. “Yeah. All right.”

He rose from his stool easily enough; most people probably would have missed the way he pushed his forearm against the bar to steady himself as he turned. “Take it easy, you two. I expect to see you bright and early at the office tomorrow.”

“Won’t you have to be there to see us?” asked Breda.

Mustang held a finger of warning over his shoulder. It turned into a wave as he reached the bar entrance, and he just managed to hop out of the way of the door’s edge as it swung closed behind him.

Hawkeye leaned forward. “What are you drinking there?” she asked brusquely.

The truly indulgent thing was that Breda had ordered a tumbler of Evergreen Hills. Whiskey always reminded him of home. It was what his mother drank while cooking supper, after she’d decided she was finished with red wine. Her favorite kind was Northern, which dirt-cheap Evergreen only aspired to be, but there just was enough amber flavor behind the scorch of liquor for Breda to recall his childhood: the groaning of the big iron stove and the scent of onions over-frying in butter, youthful memories stuffed in the back of his mind like a closet full of outgrown coats. Other officers made fun of his fondness for the stuff. So Evergreen also reminded him of the academy, which was the place he’d first decided he would no longer be embarrassed by himself.

“I’ve never tried that,” said Hawkeye, and to Breda’s surprise, she turned and immediately asked the bartender for one.

“It’s pretty rough going down,” he warned, but Hawkeye was already pushing her coin across the counter and accepting the glass. She tipped it back, swallowed, and only grimaced a little as she set it back on the bar.

“It’s not great,” she said, dry as chalk.

The one and only time Breda’s last girlfriend had tried Evergreen, she’d spat it back out half a second later. “I’m impressed,” he said.

“It’s a talent.”

Breda smiled, but found he didn’t have an easy rejoinder. Though the bar was still loud, it was as though a bubble of silence had settled around them. Things were different with Hawkeye by herself. Not uneasy, exactly—just absent the carefree atmosphere Mustang could generate without any work at all. Lazy, lucky slug.

Breda tried to think of something to say as he watched Hawkeye peer at her drink. She seemed to steel herself a moment before taking another sip. As soon as she had swallowed, she said, almost still into the glass, “I’m not seeing Nathaniel anymore.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s all right. Thank you.”

He was certain now he hadn’t been imagining the edge in her voice earlier. Hawkeye always carried a sort of tension about her person, but this was different. Less polished. A restlessness that made Breda want to pay close attention. He felt he should say something kind, so he admitted, "I haven't met anyone new since Elaine and I called it quits last month.”

Hawkeye nodded. She was worrying at her glass with her thumb. If she had asked for ice, each swipe would have cut a clean-edged slash through the coat of condensation. But neat, there was no pattern to trace, only the smeared reflection of the hazy lamp just overhead flashing in and out of view. Inside the glass, the whiskey trembled, slopping up the sides and leaving a thin glaze behind. Finally, Hawkeye said, “So you’re free tonight.”

It was just about all Breda could do to keep his head. “I guess so,” he said, even though the rush of anticipation was so sudden and strong that he felt like a red-hot poker had been jammed between his legs. Everything seemed to click into place at once. He was glad Jean had gone home early. He was glad to have ordered the Evergreen. He was especially glad to have good instincts.

The first time, Hawkeye had been forgiving of his caution: Breda wasn’t anticipating her interest, and he was mindful of workplace etiquette. But by now she evidently expected him to be quicker on the uptake. She’d guided them into this, this _routine_ —though Breda knew it was dangerous to think of it that way—using the same steadiness with which she managed the daily office drudgery.

Breda cleared his throat, and then he yielded to the smile that was tugging at his mouth. Hawkeye returned it with her own: thin and measured, but no less genuine for it. “No point in waiting around here, is there?” she said, nodding at Breda’s glass and raising her own. “Cheers.”

Yes, Hawkeye was nothing if not direct, Breda thought as he gulped the whiskey down. He liked that about her.

The walk to her apartment was short and quiet; Hawkeye set a pace Breda might have called _brisk_ on a day he was feeling generous, and _brutal_ on a day he wasn’t. He told himself the speed was because of the chill wind, not any special eagerness on her part, but his spirits were buoyed nonetheless. He was only a man. It would have been difficult for anyone to keep a clear head if a girl like Hawkeye had just decided to go to bed with you.

Even the dog couldn’t bring his mood too far down. As Hawkeye let them into her apartment, Black Hayate came trotting up to nose at her shoes; she hung her coat on the rack, then reached down to scratch his head. “Hello, boy. Did you miss me?”

Breda regarded the interaction from a wary distance as he shrugged his own coat off. He wanted to look at Hawkeye’s ass, which was on display as she bent over, but it was difficult to ignore those judging canine eyes.

“Looks like he’s learned not to approach you.”

“Well, isn’t that nice,” muttered Breda. “Could he tell all his pals the same thing? Maybe howl it out the window for them to hear?”

“He’s too well-behaved to do that.”

It struck Breda then that he had never once heard Hawkeye use the overly-cute voices that other people developed to talk to their pets. He’d always been embarrassed on his previous girlfriend’s behalfs. But Hawkeye spoke to the dog no more warmly than she might to her coworkers.

With that, he figured he might as well look at her ass. It was a nice ass, taut and muscular when one squeezed it. Which Breda had. And would like to again. It was a good thing Hawkeye wasn’t one for much conversation; he was finding it awfully difficult to keep his thoughts coherent.

“Come on,“ she called over her shoulder, leading all three of them down the hallway.

She shut Hayate out of the bedroom; Breda gritted his teeth until the sound of clicking nails on the floor had receded. Then he turned his attention to more pressing matters. Hawkeye had left the lamp off, but some moonlight still shone through the drawn curtains. It reflected off her white button-down shirt; she seemed wrapped in an eerie glow. There was a dark gap in the fabric, an oval sliver like a cat’s pupil, which hovered between her breasts. Breda swallowed.

She took a step closer, then another, until Breda reached out and secured his hands on her hips. She only had to tilt her chin up a little to gaze at him—to prompt him, silently, with an expectant look. Breda remembered to keep his eyes open this time, so he wouldn’t miss and crash their teeth together again. He found his target. He closed his eyes and felt her mouth open beneath his. He shouldn’t think so much. What could be simpler than this?

Hawkeye allowed the kiss to go on like that for another minute, and then her grip on his collar tightened and her hips began to rock against him. Slowly, Breda recognized that she was trying to tug him toward the bed. She was impatient, he thought, and a grin spread across his face.

“What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing.” He ducked his head and began to kiss her neck. She tasted like whiskey. No, wait—that was just his own tongue, flicking against her soft skin.

“You know,” she said, tilting her head to give him better access, “with Nathaniel, I missed being in charge.”

A strange, work-related thought began to surface tentatively, but Breda shoved it down before it was fully realized. Instead, he made himself remember their last encounter, over six months ago, and how Hawkeye’s breasts had loomed over him as she spread her legs and sank down on his mouth. “I like when you’re in charge, too,” he mumbled, and his teeth grazed her skin.

“Oh, good.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his hands to her belt; he began obediently to undo it. She opened the bottom button of her shirt, but paused to toy with the next, leaning back on one hand. “I don’t think I’ll take this off yet.”

Breda stifled a groan. He thought he’d like to look at Hawkeye’s breasts at any time or place, as long as she approved him doing so.

Hawkeye had a field soldier’s physical training, so when her stomach was bared he could see tight-knitted abdominal muscles and that her breathing was properly deep from her diaphragm, steady and even—a little too even, he thought wryly. Her pubic hair was nearly black. Breda kissed the edge of her bush, then began to follow it around and down as he worked her trousers off, letting his tongue trace the exposed crease of her hip.

Hawkeye squirmed. “That tickles.” Her hand touched Breda’s head with gentle but unmistakable suggestion. “Let’s see if we can’t improve on that.”

Breda knelt and rested his elbows on Hawkeye’s parted thighs. He felt for her lips, spread her open, and inhaled her scent: there was nothing like it, hot and piquant and human, with her bush tickling the tip of his nose. The exposed hole was smeared with glistening slickness, though he had barely touched her yet. Had she gotten so wet on the walk home? Sitting at the bar?

Even when he was about to put his mouth on a girl, Breda couldn’t stop thinking.

He licked a long, slow, shivery path up the length of her open slit. The mild, acidic taste of Hawkeye’s arousal, the warmth and softness of her delicate skin, the subtle tightening in her hips as he slid across her clit. Breda groaned in his throat. He couldn’t decide which part he liked the best, so he did it again as Hawkeye’s thighs twitched against his arms. And again. Soon he was licking in a steady rhythm, settling in for a slow approach.

But that wasn’t Hawkeye’s way. Breda felt the hand in his hair, tugging him up. Who was he to deny such a request? He covered her clit with his lips and sucked.

“That’s nice,” Hawkeye sighed as Breda began to swirl his tongue. “Lower...a little more to your left... _yes_ , like that…”

He ventured a fingertip at the entrance to her hole. Hawkeye moaned her approval, so Breda slipped it in. She felt even wetter now as he worked the finger in and out, knuckle bent to rub against her. The grip on Breda’s hair tightened. He had thick fingers.

“Give me another one,” Hawkeye panted, undoing the next button on her shirt.

Before the first time Hawkeye invited him to bed, Breda had been used to fumbling his way through cunt-licking blind, deciphering mysterious cues like a traveler navigating the unfamiliar wilderness. He even hoped he was pretty good at it. Giving head like he was taking dictation had required some adjustment. Of course, ever since that first time she had positioned his mouth and told him what to do, Breda had predicted he might have some trouble going back. He still held out hope that Hawkeye’s directness wasn’t really as unusual as it seemed.

Breda plunged a second finger in along with the first, trying to keep his imagination from skipping carelessly to a fantasy where they were his cock instead. In his opinion, their current activity was highly underrated by most men. Breda was so hard that whenever he shifted on his knees, the brush of fabric made him throb. He paused to swallow.

A sharper tug. “Don’t stop like that again.”

Breda grunted and flicked his tongue back and forth across Hawkeye’s clit. He loved a clit like hers: taut across the round nub, exposed and engorged when she was aroused, and so sensitive that when prodded just right, muscles in her legs trembled. It was no sacrifice to keep licking. Saliva spilled over his lip, dripped down his chin, but Breda didn’t stop.

“Good,” said Hawkeye. She stroked his hair; the gesture was more approving than affectionate, but warmed Breda all the same. Before Hawkeye, he’d never thought he would be praised for taking direction. Much less suspected he would enjoy it so much, messy and eager.

Because he had a mouth on him. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d been in trouble for that: been spanked, smacked, told off by teachers and shouted at by sergeants, made to run laps around yellowed fields in the blistering sun. But here his mouth was no trouble at all. Hawkeye would let him talk forever.

If only they had that long. He could recognize the signs by now: her hips beginning to rise, thighs tightening around him. Breda pumped his fingers harder. This was his favorite part. Unlike several officers he could name, Breda kept his private life private; he and Hawkeye had that in common. But even if he’d wanted to, he didn’t know that he could explain exactly how satisfying it was to make her come. To _see_ her come. Anyone could predict that she’d clench on his fingers and shudder uncontrollably. The other things, though—the fact that she often cursed when it happened, or that a surprising gush of warm fluid occasionally accompanied her climax—those were the secrets that thrilled Breda. On Hawkeye, orgasm almost looked like recklessness. It was exhilarating to witness the wild abandon of her surrender to inevitability.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” she gasped, and Breda watched every moment.

Only when Hawkeye’s breathing finally began to slow did Breda withdraw. He sat back on his knees, cracking one that had grown stiff, and licked his fingers contemplatively. He was lucky he’d never suffered the rumored debilitating effects of whiskey on men. Not because it would make a difference with Hawkeye, but because he wanted to be able to enjoy this memory when he arrived home.

Hawkeye sat up. “Here.”

Pale, soft, and splayed slightly to either side, her breasts emerged from her plain black brassiere. Breda drank the sight in greedily, examining the freckles that spilled down her chest, the stark curve of where each breast hung heavily over her ribs. He wished he could touch them. He ached to recall how they filled his hands and the sound of Hawkeye’s resultant sighs. Her nipples were large and dark, stiff with the cold—or, optimistically, from Breda. “Guess this means I did a good job,” he said, thinking about what one would feel like in his mouth.

“I’d say so.”

“I’d like to lick those, too,” he said in a low voice.

An odd flicker crossed Hawkeye’s face, but she smiled. “Watch it, Second Lieutenant.”

“Ouch. Yes, sir.”

Hawkeye was already tugging her brassiere down again. “We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

Breda nodded and got to his feet; no matter his fantasies, he had no delusions about the end of their encounters. All he said was, “Yeah, it’s a shame the colonel won’t be hungover. We could have gone in a little late.”

She just shook her head. “I wouldn’t be able to, anyway.”

Hayate skittered around them when they emerged from the bedroom, but Hawkeye caught his collar. “Stop that, boy. Don’t be rude.”

“G’night, Hawkeye,” Breda said at the door. “It’s been fun.”

“Likewise. Good night, Breda.”

Back outside, Breda took a deep breath of the frigid air. He felt good. Sometimes a three-drink night ended in disaster. But he’d had a keen feeling about this one. A burp that had been percolating in his gut finally worked its way up; Breda released it with gusto.

Then, with a sudden nauseating self-awareness, he looked back up at the window. She could be standing there by a yellow lamp, watching him walk away, confused or maybe just amused at his expense. But there was nothing, no dark sinuous silhouette watching over him.

She came to him, Breda reminded himself. That fact was certainly beyond doubt. Not Havoc, who was better-looking, the obvious choice. Not Fuery, who had a perpetual air of innocence—something Breda suspected that Hawkeye, in a certain mood, would enjoy training out of the sergeant. And not the colonel, for something utterly prohibited and all the more naughty for it. Only him, Breda. The sex had been good the first time and good since then, so it was easy enough to understand.

After all, he was only following instinct.

An icy gust of wind swept in and sliced at him beneath his chin. Breda shivered, pulled his collar up higher to hide his neck, and headed home.


End file.
